Modena, Prague, Cologne, and Glasgow
Petrichor, the street lights Pernod
Prismatic arches, alameda
Trunks wet on one side in need of
Lovebirds’ carvings, hippie kisses
Holding hands his daughter listens
Eye-minded father’s prudent musings
Look, my girl, it’s “Rats with wings”
Art deco cafe, outdoor tables
The waiters tall, half Greek, half angels
Green tea, maybe a crêpe or two
They start to hear a cashmere coo
Girls in hijabs, boys eyeing boys
A sudden hunch, a flutter noise
Appalled they add what bias brings
Look around, it’s “Rats with wings”
No viators, steadfast round
Elevated from the ground
Their wings like sheets of slate, yet tough
Like granite, brilliant, ashen, rough
Random like a Dada poem
Undulating, fear below them
Once messengers of lords and kings
Look, my dear, more “Rats with wings”
Plebeian, not a shred of doubt
Alacrity to hate and shout
Museum taxidermy peacock
Admiration for the nighthawk
The fate of daisies long foregone
Yet red tulips linger on
Everywhen it sits and sings
They will cry, it’s “Rats with wings”